The girl had seen Jack’s upraised hand, and without understanding what he said, guessed he was pleading for the Russian’s life.
‘Oh monsieur, monsieur!’ she cried in French, which language Jack spoke fluently—‘oh monsieur, save my brother!’ and she ran forward and clung to Jack’s stirrup.
‘I will try,’ said Jack, without looking at her; ‘but he must yield himself prisoner.’
Jack rode up to the officer, whom he now saw was very young, and cried, ‘Monsieur, deliver up your sword; you are my prisoner.’
‘I am wounded, as you see,’ said the officer with a slight curl of the lip, ‘or I would die rather than surrender.’
‘It is the fortune of war,’ said Jack, receiving the sword, which he handed to the Hussar, saying, ‘He is your prisoner, comrade.’
‘Keep him,’ said the Hussar; ‘I don’t want him.—Come on, Dick!’ he cried to his comrade. ‘Mount again; there’s plenty to be done yet!’ and away they went.
Jack had dismounted, and the girl threw herself at his feet, thanking him profusely.
‘Oh my brother would have been killed!’ she cried; ‘a thousand thanks, Monsieur le Soldat.’
Jack looked embarrassed. ‘Your brother is my prisoner,’ he said, ‘and I must take him to my officer; but you, mademoiselle, what are you doing here? You had better get into your carriage and depart. We do not make war on women.’